On this day, we covered over 11 miles and 6000ft+ total elevation change going around the northern face of the Mont Blanc massif. And, by this point of the tour, the winds had changed direction, bringing in foreboding clouds. The previous day, Harry was caught in a rain storm and pelted by hail. Today was our turn for a similar fate.
But before all that, our morning hike was an enjoyable one. The trees and clouds shielded us and alleviated the troubles of the heat wave. We followed the stream from yesterday down the Refugio through a spacious alpine forest and into a denser jungle. The morning dew could not evaporate in the increasingly humid weather, which made the ground quite slippery.
The jungle, at times, would part for small pastures strewn with wild berries. The first time we saw people picking them, I did not realize what was happening. I thought someone had lost something, and everyone had pitched in to look for something. When we realized they were looking for berries, we pitched in also.
As we hiked along our route, the foreboding clouds got darker and darker, and when we left the safety of the forest, it pounced. Rained it did. It poured and poured, and it was supported by violent updraft winds on the mountainside. The temperatures had plummeted too. Therefore, we were soaked in freezing rain and slammed by the wind. We thought we might find refuge in our designated lunch spot: Alpage de Bovine – a cow farm turned into a hiker’s inn.
But, oh no, we were mistaken. They allowed us to order lunch but asked us to eat outside due to COVID restrictions and a large group with reservations taking up the only spots inside. So, with our 72 Swiss Franc lunch (yeah, Switzerland puts a hole in your wallet), we had to eat in the torrential downpour. While my mother went to convince the inn owners to at least stand inside, my dad and I created an elaborate method to eat without our Rosti (Swiss fried potato dish) flying away in the wind. He would hold one of the large beach umbrellas, which he found stashed on the side, in one hand and one of the Rosti plates in the other. I would hold the umbrella, too, with one of my hands and take a few bites with the other. And, after a bit, we would switch, and he would eat while I held the plate. All the while, our other 2 Rosti plates were soaked on the uncovered bench beside us. However, the wind was so strong, and the thick ceramic plate was so heavy that our static holds began faltering. We had to abandon our plan.
On top of that, my mother returned with an answer – No. Ultimately, we had to resort to sticking to the inn’s walls as the roof extended slightly, giving us barely a foot of dry shade. Even then, the wind would send the rain at an angle to pelt us. We tried to finish as much of the lunch as possible, but in the end, the wind, rain, and cold forced us to discard a chunk of it and return to the trail. But our path was blocked by a herd of local cows. In jest, I asked the cows to move in Marathi (my native language), and they graciously parted. To motivate my tired parents, I began singing “Khandon Se Milte Hai” (an Indian army marching song) to push us forward. Thankfully, no one else could hear my horribly off-key voice because of the loud storm. When we finally reached the tree line, the storm abruptly came to a halt.
For such days, we had packed electrolyte and it had begun to kick in as all the pain faded away. At the next clearing, we even bellowed “Ricola” at the top of our lungs. Back in Singapore, the theatres would always play a Ricola advertisement with a Swiss man in the alps blowing an extended horn accompanied by a friend saying Ricolaaaaa. It inspired my mother and me to make a pact to reenact the commercial when we would go to the Swiss alps.
Our remaining 2000ft descent went relatively smoothly other than the general body aches. After Col de Forclaz, we met the Kolhapur-Belgium couple from the previous day. We all walked down to the town of Trient, where our Auberge (an inn in french) lay waiting. The inn had nice hot showers, which is precisely what we needed. We were drenched, shivering, and caked in mud.
Another thing you get used to by this point in the hike is the smell. Although everyone has applied deodorant in the morning, the long days make us stinky. Your nostrils adapt. But there was a particular French hiker that won the award for BO.
Dorm room #23 was assigned to the “bookatreking 10” group, but there were a few extra remaining bunks because 3 of our members had pulled out. The Frenchman arrived late and was added to our room. Oh god, the smell! Tímea and I nicknamed him “French Cheese.” Even worse, he was very talkative and would catch you. I got stuck in one such conversation for a solid 5 minutes, holding my breath in. Tímea was smart; she managed to avoid him by telling him she needed to pack. I made an excuse that I needed to go down to dinner and escaped.
We had our first cheese Fondue for dinner, and the amount of cheese was overwhelming. Cooked in white wine and served with bread and baked potatoes, the Fondue is a cheese lover’s delight. But we didn’t know the proper etiquette and method for the communal Fondue pot. Due to a seat assignment error, we were placed between 2 large French hiking groups, who couldn’t speak English. We managed to converse through google translate, and they taught us to dip each bite of our carbs (potato or bread) into the pot.
Surprisingly, I didn’t have as much problem conversing in Italian as in French. I could understand the bare minimum of Italian, most likely because of taking Spanish in high school. Another reason I loved Italy. But our Italian leg was already over by day 6, and we were in our last Swiss Refugio. The next day we crossed back into France.
Conscience of Aniket 